


Eight-Million, Two-Thousand, Seven-Hundred and Fifty (One)

by soshedances



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Sparkling Moments Challenge, Through the Years, features gratuitous hand holding, fluffy fluff fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soshedances/pseuds/soshedances
Summary: It starts as a joke, way back when they’re seven and nine.
Relationships: Scott Moir & Tessa Virtue, Scott Moir/Tessa Virtue
Comments: 56
Kudos: 122





	Eight-Million, Two-Thousand, Seven-Hundred and Fifty (One)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peacefulboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefulboo/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for the wonderful Boo, who keeps me company when I should be sleeping and provides endless kindness and encouragement. You’re the best! 
> 
> I originally toyed with this idea while I was writing ‘Hands’ and had planned to resurrect it for Throwback Week. We can see how well that went, but this challenge has given me the perfect excuse to dust it off! Thank you to K for the beta and for listening to me yell a lot in the process. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It starts as a joke, way back when they’re seven and nine. 

Tessa trips over her toepick as they turn a corner in practice. She sprawls across the ice, narrowly avoiding taking Scott down with her as she catches herself on her forearms. She’s a little winded by the fall and trying to decide whether she’s actually hurt or just in shock from the impact, when Scott surprises her by extending both hands to help her to her feet. 

Accepting his offer, she wraps her mitten clad fingers around his and allows herself to be pulled upright. She’s just about to let go and thank him when he leans in to whisper into her ear.

“One hundred and twenty four.”

She looks at him, a puzzled wrinkle forming beneath the brim of her fluffy pink toque. “What?” 

“One hundred and twenty four!” He repeats. “I bet you that’s how many times we’ve held hands so far.” He waves their joined hands around between them for emphasis before letting go.

She giggles. “Scott, that’s ridiculous! We’ve only been skating together for three weeks...”

“Well, no way to know for sure unless we keep counting!” 

He extends his right hand and wiggles his fingers for her to take them so that they can restart their pattern from the beginning. She slips neatly into kilian hold, counting them in under her breath.

“Five and six and ah sev-en eight!”

As they push off, Scott yells “ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY FIVE” for the entire rink to hear and then they’re gliding, laughter dissolving into the breeze behind them and the dull throbbing in her elbows easily forgotten.

\- - -

He keeps it up, as they move and grow and change, whispering increasingly ridiculous numbers into her ear. 

On a good day in Kitchener-Waterloo, when everything clicks into place and it feels like they’re flying. 

_“Seven thousand, three hundred and ninety-two.”_

When they win their first national title as juniors, giddy with laughter as someone hands her a cowboy hat over the boards

_“Twenty-one thousand, six hundred and four.”_

During their early days in Canton, when it seems that nothing they can do will ever be enough to please Marina, but they keep trying anyway.

_“Forty-five thousand, eight hundred and ninety one.”_

\- - -

He keeps it relegated to the rink, on the ice, always just a quick quip away, until all of a sudden they’re not the ones skating. They’re spectators just like everyone else, wedged together on the uncomfortable sofa in his parent’s basement while their peers sail across the ice in Italy.

“This should’ve been us…” Scott mumbles, for what feels like the millionth time since they sat down to watch the original dance. Tessa internally rolls her eyes, before twisting to get a better look at him.

“And?” She fixes him with a questioning stare. She used up all her energy for sulking in the two weeks following Nationals, but apparently he has plenty to spare. 

“I’m just saying. We could’ve done a better job.” He slumps even further into the corner of the couch, eyes still locked on the screen.

She’s firm as she demands his attention. “Scott.” 

“What? Did you see those twizzles? And their edges are a disaster!” He’s giving the TV his best zombie stare, oblivious to the increasing intensity of her gaze. “Also, this music choice is whack.”

“Scott,” she tries again, this time brandishing the remote at him too. “Either you turn around and look at me, or I’m switching this off!”

He whips around to face her. “You wouldn’t! Marie-France and Patrice are up soon!”

She aims the remote at the TV. “Try me!” 

She’s reached the outer limits of her patience when it comes to his pouting. A month is more than enough time to mourn something that was never really theirs to begin with.

“Okay, okay! You have my attention!” He angles his full body towards her, tucking one leg underneath himself and slinging an arm over the back of the couch. His eyes still twitch towards the flickering light of the screen, as if he’s scared to miss out on a significant moment just by blinking.

“I don’t want to watch this if it’s only going to make you more miserable.” He starts to protest and she cuts him off, “No! You’ve been moping since Mike spoke to us at Nationals. A couple of weeks, sure, I can handle that. But now I would like my partner back so we can figure out what we’re going to do next.”

He blinks at her, his face an equal blend of confusion and remorse as he parrots back. “What we’re going to do next?”

She chokes down a laugh, “Yes, what we’re going to do next, because believe it or not, there is life and skating beyond the 2006 Olympics!”

“Oh.” He looks a little stunned, like the thought hadn’t really crossed his mind.

“I mean, we did win our first international senior medal a couple of weeks ago, so I think we might be going places…” That earns her a genuine smile. “Maybe Turin just wasn’t meant to be our Olympics.”

She hedges on saying the next part out loud, almost as if she could jinx it, but it doesn’t matter because Scott seems to have understood her point.

“Can you imagine?” There’s an almost dream-like awe in his voice as he speaks. “Tess, what if we won the Olympics IN Canada?”

The laughter she’s been withholding bubbles over. What she’d meant to suggest was that they’d have a home Olympic games to aspire to, but winning? Winning had never even occurred to her as a possibility. It sounds like one of the craziest ideas she’s heard since Scott told her he wanted frosted tips dyed to match Eminem.

(He got the frosted tips, so maybe the concept of winning wasn’t that far fetched either.)

“Wow T, so glad to see you have that much faith in our abilities!”

She straightens up from where she’d planted herself into the couch cushions with laughter. “Honestly? I’d never considered the idea of winning before… Do you really think we could do it?”

There’s a shine to his eyes that’s been missing for the past month as Scott raises his hand in front of her. “There’s only one way to find out. I think we’ve found our next goal. What’d you say Tess, Vancouver 2010?”

He curls his fingers into a fist so that only his pinky remains extended, offered up for her to take. 

“Vancouver 2010,” she affirms, linking her pinky with his. It feels like a slightly childish way to seal such a monumental promise, but she doesn’t have time to dwell on it as she spots Marie-France and Patrice’s warm-up group taking to the ice.

“Just in time!” She nods towards the television to redirect Scott’s attention. He angles his body towards the screen again, but instead of letting go, he shifts their hands from the pinky promise interlocked fingers. She eyes him curiously and he gives her hand a squeeze.

“Eighty-five thousand, three hundred and seven. And If we’re aiming for Vancouver, you’d better be ready for several thousand more!”

\- - - 

Sometimes, the numbers mean less than the tone in which they are conveyed.

Tangled beneath blankets on a chilly October morning. 

_“Two hundred thousand six hundred and fifty five.” (I don’t know what else to say)._

Stepping onto the ice after two months of silence, accompanied with a tentative squeeze. 

_“Two hundred thousand and six hundred and fifty six.” (I’m sorry — forgive me?)_

Whispered as their fingers clasp in an ending pose, while what feels like the entire nation cheers for their victory.

 _“Four hundred and eighty-eight thousand, two hundred and ten.” (We did it. Thank you. For everything.)_ _  
_

\- - -

It’s only ever Scott who says it. She’s entertained the idea of volleying it back over the years, but the timing has never been quite right, until it is.

Her eyelids feel like they’ve been glued shut and her limbs are heavy beneath the solid weight of the heated blanket that covers her. She takes note of a dull beeping noise in the distance, but it doesn’t sound urgent and she’s so cozy that she’s perfectly content to drift back to sleep.

The next time Tessa wakes, her eyelashes still feel as though they’ve been encased in cement and she is acutely aware that her nose is very, very itchy. She lifts her left hand to scratch at it, but finds it encumbered by wires and tape. Frowning, she tries for her right arm instead and only then does she register the familiar comfort of another hand draped over top of her own, a thumb brushing soothing strokes back and forth across her skin.

She manages to crack open one eye, followed by the other. The lighting feels harsh after so long in the dark and the room is blurry before her. She blinks several times, trying to clear her vision enough to identify the figure at her bedside when they solve the mystery for her by speaking.

“Welcome back Sleeping Beauty. So nice of you to finally join us!”

They must have given her some real high quality pain killers this time around, she thinks, because surely she’s hallucinating if Scott is the one in the recovery room with her. She blinks a few more times, but every time she opens her eyes he’s still there and the confusion must be evident on her face. 

“Don’t act so happy to see me T, the nurses might get the wrong idea!”

He gives her a look of faux disapproval before throwing her a wink. She opens her mouth to protest that she is indeed very happy to see him, but her tongue feels like sandpaper and all she gets out is a cough instead.

He pats the back of her hand and turns to leave the room. “Let’s see if we can find a nurse to sit you up and maybe get you some water, hey?”

It seems to take an eon to lift her arm, but she finally scratches the itch on her nose and wipes away the sleep from her eyes before Scott returns with a nurse in tow. She’s deemed awake enough to be allowed to sit upright and have a glass of water, which she gratefully accepts before the nurse bustles away with the promise to check in again within the hour in case she needs any pain management.

Setting her glass aside, she finally addresses Scott.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she admits.”My mom…” She trails off, unsure how to continue and not wanting to make him feel as though his presence isn’t welcomed. 

“She’ll be here shortly. I told her I had this one covered, but that I would text once you were awake. I hope that was okay?” 

“Absolutely.” She smiles as he meets her eyes and she sees a wave of tension release from his body. “I’ll admit I was surprised, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“I want to do it right this time Tess.” He sinks back into the chair next to her bed. “Me and you, equal partners the whole way through. The good, the bad, the ugly, even the tiniest of victories. Every physio appointment. I want to be there, working by your side, if you’ll let me?”

She’s starting to feel the pricking sensation of post-surgical pain returning to her shins, but she wills it aside in favour of the lightness bubbling from within. She shakes her head in disbelief, lets the joy she feels imbue the tone of her warning.

“You might get sick of me. I’m not going to be much fun for the next few weeks.”

“I don’t know kiddo, thirteen years of history indicates that it’s highly improbable I will ever tire of your company.”

“Well in that case,” she extends her right hand and makes a grabbing motion for him to take it. “It's a deal!” 

Both of their smiles grow as Scott curls his fingers around her own, and she knows the perfect way to say thank you. Sweeping her thumb across the back of his knuckles, she whispers, 

“Five hundred and seven thousand, three hundred and two.”

\- - -

Echoing their hopes for another Olympic gold, it burns brightly, then flickers, before succumbing to the dark.

An Affirmation. 

_“Seven hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine.”_

_“Eight hundred thousand.” (Look how much rice we have kiddo. We can do this, together.)_

A Prayer.

_“Nine hundred and sixty nine thousand.” (We can do this, together.)_

A Platitude.

_“One million, eighty thousand, six hundred and seventy nine.” (Together.)_

\- - -

Much like their competitive ambition, it is never truly extinguished. Instead it shapeshifts for a while, taking the form of looks that linger across bustling rooms, laughter in the back of crowded tour buses, fingers that brush each other but never tangle together off the ice. 

She’s tempted to say it, when sweaty and smiling they seal their comeback deal with the traditional pinky promise atop the Great Wall of China. It would be so easy to slip her hand into his, to squeeze it tight and toss out a giant number, let it float away on the breeze with their newly declared dreams. She settles for pulling him into a sticky hug instead, but the desire is there. 

They move to Montreal, put down roots and pick up a new support network. They skate and dance and sweat and swear and laugh and she doesn’t remember if day-to-day training was ever this fun.

They’re gasping for air after a particularly brutal round of interval training, his hand one of the few things tethering her to reality as they glide around the perimeter of the rink trying to catch their breath. He squeezes her hand in three quick pulses, an almost subconscious movement, before shifting their grip so that her pinky slips between his ring and index fingers and into a more casual hold.

In that moment she’s struck by the idea that even if their hypothetical numbers are ridiculous, the truth is that no one else will ever come close to spending as much time holding her hand as Scott. 

She thinks for a split second that the inevitability should scare her — the idea that no one else could touch her in as many different ways as he has. Instead it sends a shiver up her spine, warms her from the inside out as it creeps from her chest all the way up to her cheekbones, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. 

“Earth to Planet Tessa, come in Planet Tessa!”

Scott tugs her focus back to the present as they skid to a stop at the boards. Tossing a water bottle to her before unscrewing his own, he gives her a suspicious look as he gulps down the contents, a hand coming up to rake through his shaggy hair.

“What’s up Virtch? Are you feeling okay? You look like you might actually be enjoying cardio…”

All she can do is grin and shake her head. “I feel fine, and yes, I do believe this sensation I am currently experiencing is what people call joy.”

He places a hand on her forehead, mock feeling for a fever. “Who are you and what have you done with Tessa Virtue?”

She bats his arm out of the way, gathering up his hands in her own as she hears Patch calling for them to get to work. She slowly skates backwards, pulling him with her as she makes eye contact and stage whispers. 

“Two million, three thousand, four hundred and thirty four!”

She hears his gasp of delight as she releases him and races away, shrieking when he catches up to her, wraps an arm around her waist and spins her into a hug. Their training mates eye them curiously from the other side of the rink, not quite sure what to make of their shenanigans, as Patch loudly instructs all couples on the ice to cue up and start from the beginning of the Midnight Blues. 

They join the other pairs in line, each preparing to run through the pattern in succession. They’re about to push off when she catches the mischievous glint in his eyes and she knows before Scott even opens his mouth what he’s about to do. 

They stroke down the ice, picking up speed and as he guides her into their opening hold, he yells for the entire world to hear.

“TWO MILLION, THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND, FOUR HUNDRED AND THIRTY FIVE!”

The melody of their combined laughter as they dance through the following pattern is a better soundtrack than anything Prince could have ever written.

(Later, when the others think she’s departed for the day, Tessa overhears a heated locker room debate between Madi and Gabi about their antics. 

“What do you think that yelling was about?”

“An intimidation tactic?”

“Seemed more like a long running inside joke to me.”

“It certainly wasn’t professional!”

She doesn’t have to be watching to know that Gabi’s face is currently wrinkled with a mixture of disgust and disapproval.

“We all deserve to have a little fun don’t we? This place would be so dull if we didn’t have a sense of humour.”

“I guess…”

From her hiding place around the corner, she hears Laurence softly chime in.

“Whatever it was, I think it was sweet. They seemed so happy — perhaps they’re in love?”

All three women let out a wistful sigh and it takes every ounce of her remaining willpower to suppress her giggles.

Something like that, she thinks. 

Scott emerges from the men’s locker room, skate bag slung over his shoulder and a smirk evident on his face. 

“You ready to go home Virtch?”

She happily accepts the hand that he extends for her to take. 

“Two million, three thousand, four hundred and sixty six.”)

\- - -

Even as they spend less time on the ice, they keep the tradition going. From mundane moments to the most important ones that she never saw coming. 

As they fight over the remote and he grabs her fingers instead. With a gentle kiss pressed to her knuckles. 

_“Four million, seven hundred and seventy two thousand.”_

Whispered through closed teeth to ground him when he gets nervous during a speech they never in their wildest dreams imagined that they’d give.

_“Five million, twenty five thousand, six hundred and four.”_

Tuesday night grocery shopping, between the pasta and the curry sauce, squabbling over what to cook for dinner that week. 

_“Six million, eight hundred thousand, and twenty one.”_

Distracting her just long enough for him to get down on one knee and ask the most important question yet.

_“Seven million, ten thousand, four hundred and ninety three.”_

\- - -

“Eight-million, two-thousand, seven-hundred and fifty!”

“Cute,” she grits out, “but now is really not the—“

Her sentence is cut short as Tessa bears down, her grip on his fingers inflicting a level of pain that he is absolutely aware he is not allowed to complain about given the present circumstances. 

“—time!” She gasps out before the next contraction completely overrides her focus.

“Got it, got it.” He shifts gears. “And you’ve got this T, you’re doing so, so well. They’re almost here, just a little bit longer.”

Scott presses a kiss to her hairline, keeps up a constant stream of praise in her ear as time slows to a grind. There’s a part of him that hates that he can’t be an equal partner in this as well. She’s been such a rockstar so far, but he’d do anything to be able to share in the work if it meant less pain for her to bear.

In a way he almost gets his wish — the harder Tessa pushes, the tighter her grip on him becomes, until he’s certain that he’ll have bruised indentations of her fingernails along his hands and wrists when this is over. 

And then it is. 

With one final push and a guttural moan, their baby slides into the world. He’s filled with joy and relief and an indescribable amount of love when a squealing voice rings clear as the midwife lifts the baby up to Tessa’s chest. 

Tessa lets out a soft “oh” as she cradles their daughter for the first time.

“Hello little one, I’m your Mama.” 

His favourite sound, that miraculous mix of a laugh and a sob, follows and it has Scott bending to wrap his arms around both of his girls (his girls!) as quickly as possible. 

Tessa leans her head into his shoulder as he greets their daughter with the same tone of wonder and adoration.

“And I’m your Dad. We’re so happy that you’re finally here sweetie.”

He strokes a gentle finger down the bridge of the baby’s perfect nose before lifting her tiny hand to press a kiss to its palm. She curls her fist around his finger, which he logically knows is a reflex, but it still feels like she’s claiming him as her own. 

He’s not sure the love and completion that he’s feeling at this moment could possibly multiply any further, until he hears Tessa whisper into his ear. 

“One…”

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration and (sort of) title taken from the poem [’Hands’](https://youtu.be/kqCMHcdYR_E) By Sarah Kay.


End file.
